


Guest Nor Trespasser Be

by CorvidFightClub



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bounty Hunter McCree, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Overwatch AU, Overwatch/Dragon Age crossover, Slavery, elf hanzo, peapodmchanzoweek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13251477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/pseuds/CorvidFightClub
Summary: Bounty hunter Jesse McCree is set by a powerful magister on the trail of an escaped elvish slave bearing a dragon tattoo.(Done for peapodmchanzoweek.)





	1. Contract

**Author's Note:**

> I'm flying through this out of self-loathing because I know it's going to turn into a monster if I let it. I'm blaming this on my friends. No betaing, just full-bore drivel. Strap in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

McCree shifted uncomfortably in his seat, which easily cost more than his kit, his sword, and his horse combined. The small study was packed, floor to ceiling, with books both weathered and new. Some looked innocent enough. Others looked like they’d curse him just for gazing at them. Nothing unnerved him more than the frail old man settling behind the desk across from him, arranging his magister robes as he addressed Jesse.

“I appreciate your interest in this matter, serrah…?”

“McCree.”

“McCree,” magister Falreath said, as of tasting his name. “You come highly recommended by associates of mine. I believe the contract I lay before you is well within your purview.” He slid a piece of parchment across the darkwood desk.

“That’s flattering of your associates,” McCree said. He picked up the parchment. It was a sketch in ink of an elf with dark hair, a beard framing a stern-set mouth. McCree tapped the second sketch next to the portrait. A stylized design of two dragons. “What’s this?”

A dark cloud passed over Falreath’s wizened features. He waved a bony hand. “Nothing special,” he answered, “A tattoo he has on his arm that may help you identify him. No magic will hide it, even if he has changed his appearance.”

McCree nodded. He set the parchment down. The old man wasn’t telling him something. “So, what, does he owe you money?”

“I paid good coin for that slave and would see him returned to me alive,” Falreath answered, looking down his nose at the bounty hunter as if all of this had been apparent from the start, how dare McCree be so stupid. 

McCree pushed the parchment back across the desk. “I’m not a slaver,” he said, trying to keep the disgust from his voice. He hunted brigands, murderers, dangerous folk that needed bringing to justice, not elves with good enough fortune to escape slavery. 

Falreath’s withered face frowned with every single wrinkle available. “I don’t need a slaver for this. I need a hunter, serrah McCree. A good one.” The magister’s eyes narrowed, sly. “And you need those gambling debts to disappear.”

McCree stiffened then went loose, anger simmering in him. He should walk away. This didn’t sit right in his gut.

But a man had to eat.

***

Night saw McCree leading his horse off the road to camp in the trees, cursing Falreath with every other breath. The life of a bounty hunter was the life of a drifter; never long in one place, always traveling to keep his prospects from drying up. As such, the job came with few luxuries and fewer friends. That left drink, gambling, and paid company. One often led to the others.

McCree hitched his horse to a tree with enough of a lead to graze and dug out a fire pit deep enough to hide the light. He’d quit gambling long ago, but debt followed a man to the grave. He ate a lean meal of cheese, a heel of bread, and a link of sausage, then kicked open his bedroll. Two knives under the pillow, sword on the right, crossbow on the left. McCree stretched out on the sheepskin. The elf was a day and a half ahead of him. Not the worst odds but not the best. Without Vallaslin, the local Dalish tribes would likely turn the elf away. McCree touched his jerkin, feeling the inner pocket with the ink drawing of the elf and a small glass vial filled partially with blood. The vial pulsed softly, steadily, like a heartbeat. As long as he went the correct direction, the phylactery would continue to pulse. A boon from the magister to speed the return of his property. 

McCree shut his eyes. Andraste help my sad soul, he thought.


	2. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand away we go. There will be the occasional Dragon Age character cameo, but they aren't the focus of the story so don't expect a lot of them.

McCree came across the old man mid morning when the trees had broken to reveal a road. Crumpled next to day-old wagon wheel tracks, the man let out a soft groan when McCree neared. A scholar, judging by his robes. McCree paused, listening for the tell-tale shift of leaves to signal some sort of trap. When they was none, he hailed the man, “Looks like you’ve had better mornings, serrah. Too deep in the cups?”

 

“No, ah.” The man pushed himself into a sitting position. He touched behind one ear and winced. “Take care, young man. I was ambushed some time around dawn. Lying here like a fish ever since.” He pulled a satchel close, inspecting its contents with a pinched expression. 

 

McCree crossed the road and helped the man up. “They left you alive at least?”

 

“Mm, a headache, and a missing pair of clothes. Otherwise none the worse for wear.” The man offer McCree his hand. “Brother Genitivi.”

 

“Well met,” McCree returned the greeting. “Where are you off to?”

 

“Stopping for supplies in Kirkwall, then off towards Lake Calenhad. The mages have come across some artefact that requires my expertise.”

 

“Not to dwell on your misfortunes, Brother, but did you see who attacked you?”

Brother Genitivi frowned. “Not much of him, but definitely male and definitely elf.”

“You’re certain?” McCree asked, tamping down his excitement. Perhaps this job would be over faster than he’d hoped. 

 

“I’ll swear to you, it was an elf. They have a particular way of moving.” Genitivi glanced down the road then back to McCree. “Where did you come from?”

 

“Just outside of Kirkwall. If you get a move on, you’ll see the walls by tomorrow afternoon.” McCree pressed a silver piece into the Brother’s hands. “Put in a good word to Andraste for me.”

 

Genitivi stared at the coin, scratching his bald pate, then shrugged and waved as McCree followed the scant trail back into the trees.   

 

***

 

The terrain began to slope as the trail lead McCree north, towards the mountains. Even for a desperate slave, that was ballsy, considering the most the elf had to his name was a stolen set of clothes. While he walked, McCree’s mind kept circling back to his meeting with Brother Genitivi. Something felt...amiss. Especially stacked against what he’d gathered about Magister Falreath. From what he understood, the magister was a visiting dignitary from Tevinter, staying at an estate just outside of Kirkwall. A man like that could afford to mount a much heavier search to recover a slave than a single bounty hunter. 

 

Lost in thought, McCree was saved from a knife in the kidney when his horse spooked, dragging him forward those few life-saving inches. McCree caught the second strike with the flat of his blade and whirled to face his attacker. 

 

The ink drawing hadn’t done the elf justice. The stolen scholar shirt was stretched tight  across his broad shoulders, even with one sleeve torn off, displaying the tattoo of two dragons winding down his arm like vines. The elf’s dark eyes took his measure without a hint of fear. He held the knife if a reverse grip that spoke of practice.

 

“Drop the knife,” McCree demanded.

 

The elf’s answer was a quick slash-feint. McCree was quick enough to block the knife with his sword, but not the heel that slammed into his jaw, sending him reeling backwards into a tree trunk. Instinct made him roll on impact and not a second too soon. There was a blue flash and then a rain of wooden splinters. McCree turned in time to see the elf yank his glowing fist out of the tree trunk and lunge for him, quick as a snake.

 

Lyrium tattooing, McCree’s addled brain supplied as he dodged, finally getting his sword between them to keep the elf at bay. Lyrium tattooing on a Crow. 

 

This elf was a fucking  _ Crow.  _

 

Pressing the elf in his own attack, McCree took tally of his options, none of them good. He hid reaching for the belt pouch at the small of his back with a swirl of his cloak, then kept his hand low and out, the thin crossbow bolt hidden in the underside of his bracer. McCree forced his breathing even, his mind into the trance-like state that allowed him react without thinking. The elf came at him again and McCree let him in close, everything clear, like a dance. Deflect the knife enough to save your skin but let it cut your clothes, duck the punch thrown just so-- 

 

McCree stabbed the hidden bolt tucked into his bracer into the elf’s flank. 

Disengaging, the elf backed just out of striking distance. He yanked the bolt from the meat of his thigh with a grunt and threw it from him, anger darkening his sharp features. He made to press McCree again when his body swayed suddenly and the elf came up short, blinking hard.

 

“Sorry, friend,” McCree apologized, watching as the elf sank to one knee, then fell to one side, his grip going loose on his knife. Hanging back, McCree counted to twenty twice before approaching the elf’s unconscious body. The sleeping poison would keep him out for at least an hour. McCree kicked the knife away and knelt down. He patted the elf down for other weapons, took stock for other injuries. This close, there was a faint sheen of sweat. McCree touched the man’s hand. Clammy and the faintest of tremors. McCree frowned. He’d never seen anyone react badly to the sleeping poison. He cleaned the wound left from the bolt and bandaged it all the same.

 

After securing the elf’s wrists and ankles, McCree caught his horse and hefted the elf across his saddle. 

 

Looks like he’d be walking. 


	3. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait and the short chapters. It's the fastest way to get through this and get them posted. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Evening descended and McCree made camp near a natural spring some (rich) Samaritan had thought to raise some tall stones and cobble part of a path next to. Head and teeth throbbing, McCree knelt and collected some of the water into his dented travel cup. That elf packed a wallop. He wobbled back to the campfire, trying to remember how many times he’d been hit in the head, then decided it wasn’t worth the self-depreciation. 

The elf watched McCree from his seat against the stone pillar where McCree had secured him, silent and murderous. The elf had been in and out of consciousness during the day. Vaguely worrying since that sleep poison was only good for a couple hours. His tremors had increased in frequency.

McCree dug in his saddle bag. He pulled out a half empty flask of healing potion and poured a small amount into his water. Potions were expensive. “Do you have a fever?” McCree asked without looking up.

Silence.

“What’s your name?”

“You are the least deserving of my name, slaver.” The elf’s voice was low, rough.

“I’m not a slaver,” McCree responded. He took a drink of the water and held it in his mouth until the throbbing in his skull dulled. 

“A man who retrieves elves for well-to-do magisters for coin. You are the very definition of a slaver.”

McCree downed the rest of his water, wishing it was ale. “You’re an assassin who slits throats in back alleys for coin. Forgive me if I doubt your moral purity.” 

The elf gave a weak snort. “At least the death I offer is swift. Slavery is death by a thousand cuts, and then some.”

McCree walked closer and knelt next to the elf, watching the firelight flicker over his sharp features. “I’m not keen on all of this honestly. The truth is I need money, and I’ve already caught you. If I let you go, you’re likely to try to kill me, take my horse, and willy-nilly your way over the mountains in a mad dash for Antiva. I like my horse and I like being among the living. What I will do is try to get you cured of whatever illness you have so you’re at fighting weight to escape again. Take it or leave it.” He gestured with his dented cup. “You have until morning to make a decision.” 

Kicking his bedroll open on the far side of the fire, McCree positioned his crossbow next to him, tucked an extra knife under the shirt he used as a pillow, and let the crackling remains of the fire lull him to sleep.

Morning dawned grey and foreboding, though McCree was glad to see it nonetheless. He had bound the elf as well as he could, but never had he discounted the chance of said elf breaking free and stabbing him while he slept.

Instead he found the elf slumped against the stone pillar he was bound to, head loose on his shoulders, skin hot and breath fast and shallow.

Flaming tits of Andraste.

Fumbling in his packs, McCree brought out what was left of the healing draught and tipped the elf’s head back, pouring some between his parted lips. McCree sat back on his heels, watching for any sign of improvement. None came.

McCree swore and pitched the flask into the bushes. He broke camp as quickly as he could, slung the elf across his saddle, then headed east, cursing the elf’s stubbornness. Had the elf cooperated, McCree might’ve chanced seeing a healer just outside of Kirkwall. No choice now, if the elf’s breathing was any indication. 

She was going to judge him. Maker, she was going to flay McCree alive for tangling himself up in this, then salt the wounds for good measure.

The trails he followed were thin and varied. He left them often, following streams instead, the water washing away their tracks. The sun was making a valiant effort to shine when he reached the small cottage tucked away in the trees beside a hill of stone. 

Angela stood next to the garden, stringing up her laundry to dry in the breeze. She froze as they approached.

McCree waved, hoping she’d recognize him as a friend, just as two large dogs came loping around the cottage, scattering chickens as they ran to investigate McCree and his horse. McCree’s normally stalwart gelding shied, yanking at the reins as the dogs approached, their heads low. McCree couldn’t blame him; Mabari were intimidating even when they weren’t immediately showing signs of wanting to kill you.

“Easy, girls,” McCree cooed. He took off his gloves and let the dogs sniff his hands.

“They never forget who shares food with them,” Angela said. She nudged the dogs out of the way and gave McCree a brief hug. “It’s good to see you--Oh!” She started, noticing the elf across his saddle.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” McCree began, “I asked…”

Angela’s darkening expression swung towards him and the rest of the placation died in his throat. “You’re hunting runaways now?” she demanded.

The dogs growled.

McCree held his hands up, looking between her and the dogs. “I didn’t--Okay, it started out that way, but he’s ill. I couldn’t take him back like that.”

Her narrowed eyes said she didn’t believe him. “I’m surprised at you,” she admonished. Angela swept her hand towards the cottage. “Bring him inside.”

The cottage was small and neat. Dried herbs hung from the walls and rafters, giving it a spicy, earthy smell. Angela helped him settle the elf on the second cot she used for patients, then waved McCree away. She held the elf’s wrist in her hand for some time, felt his stomach, peeled back one of his eyelids. At last she lay a delicate hand on his forehead and closed her eyes. Her brow pinched suddenly. She opened her eyes and traced her fingers down the lyrium dragons on his arm.

“He’s...in the Fade,” she murmured. “The rest of him is suffering from lyrium poisoning, but something pulled him across the veil.”

McCree frowned. “So what do we do?”

Angel chewed her lip. “I need to siphon off that extra mana to regulate his body again, but I can’t do that until we pull him back from the Fade. Otherwise the link might not be strong enough for him to return to his body.”

“Well, wave your fingers and do that magic thing all the templars are raving about,” McCree urged. “I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“That’s not how it works, Jesse. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

“Mother wasn’t the teaching type.”

Angela turned to him. She folded her arms. “I’d have to do a ritual to send somebody into the Fade after him.” She raised her brows at him.

“Me?” McCree choked. “He hates me! He thinks I’m a slaver.”

“So prove him wrong. A slaver wouldn’t bother crossing into the Fade to get him. A slaver would cut his losses, slit his throat and dump his body beside the road.”

McCree rubbed his face with both hands. Magic and him had never gotten along. “There’s no other way?” he pleaded.

“No, there isn’t.”

He looked down at the elf laying on the cot, watched his eyelids flutter and his muscles twitch and shiver with fever. Strands of dark hair clung to his damp cheeks and parted lips. 

McCree let out a sigh through his nose. “When do we start?


End file.
